in movies, stumbling around, heads spinning, eyes rolling to the back of their heads. Most people in real life, when they were drunk, didn’t actually look or act like that (Soo-Ja herself, on the few occasions she drank with her friends, would never have trouble standing up; she’d simply glow, red and happy, enjoying the buzz in her body). But men in Seoul did in fact do all those things you saw on-screen, not because their tolerance was any less, but because they enjoyed putting on a show—they were the real kiesang geisha girls, singing, dancing, and making spectacles of themselves.
Soo-Ja came back to her station behind the counter and gave Mr. Shim a discouraging look, hoping that he’d go up to his room. Mr. Shim was a short, obese man in his early forties, wearing a gray office shirt and a black blazer with small white dots. He had a large receding hairline, and combed his few hairs to the front, giving the impression that a skinned cat had landed on his head. But the thing she noticed the most was that he could not stop smiling a certain maniacal smile, like someone who had read that people liked to be smiled at, and thus ordered one and slapped it on his face like a prosthesis.
“You’re a very pretty agassi,” he said, calling her miss and staring at her from the other side of the counter.
“It’s not agassi, it’s ajumma. I’m a married woman,” Soo-Ja sharply replied.
“That can’t be the truth. If you had a husband, he wouldn’t let you work as a hotel hostess, and let men steal looks at you all day.” He frowned at her sternly, in an almost professorial way, as if he had caught her in a lie.
“Don’t call me hostess,” said Soo-Ja, scowling at him. “I prefer the French term concierge, which can refer to either a man or a woman.”
“I was right the first time then, agassi, you’re a single girl, which means you can go on a date with me.”
“Did you see the twelve-year-old girl who was here when you checked in? She is my daughter.”
“I don’t see her now. And I don’t see a husband, either. Is he hiding under the table?” Mr. Shim asked, mocking her. “Should I close my eyes for a second, while you make him magically appear?” He was leaning on the counter now, his head only inches away from her.
“Please go back to your room,” said Soo-Ja, very seriously.
“I’ll go back, but only if you pour me some maegju first,” said Mr. Shim, pointing to the bottle of beer he had placed on the counter.
“This is not a bar, and I’m not a barmaid. I can’t pour you a drink.”
“Be nice, pour me a drink,” he repeated, pointing to the tea set she kept at the end of the counter for her guests. There were three empty celadon cups there, as well as an empty kettle.
“Mr. Shim, why don’t you go back to the sul-jib you came from?”
Mr. Shim walked to the end of the counter and picked up the tea set, bringing it closer to them. He placed two cups in front of her, as well as the beer bottle. He pointed at it and waited for her to pour him the drink. When he saw that she would not, he suddenly raised his hand and threw the teacups onto the ground, smashing them into pieces. Soo-Ja was stunned at how quickly his flirtation had turned to anger.
Soo-Ja said nothing at first, startled by the suddenness of his gesture. Her mouth felt dry, ashen, barely able to mouth the words “Go back to your room.” Mr. Shim ignored her and remained standing there. Feeling trapped, and wanting to get out from behind the counter, Soo-Ja moved to the left, but Mr. Shim followed suit. Soo-Ja then moved to the right, and Mr. Shim blocked her way once again.
“Let me go,” said Soo-Ja.
“All right, I will.”
Soo-Ja watched as Mr. Shim stepped back, letting her pass. But when she was about to make her way out, Mr. Shim suddenly ran to the other side of the front desk area and knocked down an oak chair and a plant. Soo-Ja stood back, shocked to see her place of work—her own home, in fact—being vandalized in front of her eyes. She expected some guests to appear, brought out by the noise, but no one did, and she realized, for one very long, sharp moment, that she was all